Goth
by prodigale
Summary: No scissors can hurt, when your heart’s already in two. — L fic


GOTH

No scissors can hurt, when your heart's already in two. L fic

warning: suicidal themes, cursing, psychological insanity. you'e been forewarned.

And no, it doesn't make sense at all. Neither does the title, I know.

purely vignette-ish.

apply standard disclaimer.

patapon does not belong to me, or i'll be filthy rich.

-

L hates noises.

It gets a little too noisy on the weekends, when the neighbours around where he's staying start playing the piano, and he's trying desperately to shut himself out from all that stupid, irritating, _cling, clang _sounds of the ivory (black and white) keys. For goddamn's sake, he's trying to concentrate, and they're ruining everything he's working for. He's nearly seeking out the final evidence, to tracking down Kira, to solving the mystery, when--

_CLING, CLANG._

He thinks he hears his heart breaking. He looks down, and he is surprised the cloth of his white shirt is intact. It's supposed to slit into two, because he's pretty darn sure he had felt a knife penetrating that soft material, poking into flesh, digging, and simply digging...

But there are no holes, and his heart is still whole.

(That's what hurts the most. He wishes to fade away.)

The piano stops the melody. A new one begins. In his head. It's noisy as hell, and it belts out drum-like patterns, rhythms, and bass guitar lines that make no sense. It reminds him of that game Near has been playing all this time on his new gadget that is kind of like _Patapon, _and L thinks it is _Patapon _jumping in his head. And he can't focus, and he's losing his sanity, and he shuts his eyes, closes his ears.

There is a limit to the numbers, words, digits, calculations running through his head.

--Carthasis.

And he lets it all out, and yell like a crazy man.

(No one can say he isn't crazy.)

He scares the fuck out of the people around the house. Near beside him drops his gadget and loses in his _Patapon _game, and there's this unmistakable sadistic smirk on L's face, and he thinks he's finally lost it, gone, and won't ever come back again, and he's the happiest man, luckiest person alive.

He stares hard down at his Apple white laptop, wonders why it is so damned pristine white, and it deserves to be tainted. So he takes his chocolate milkshake in his cup, reverses its axis so the liquid spills and spills, and it doesn't stop, and chocolate brown and creamy white color meshes together like a sick horrifying beautiful theme of watercolors and fuses like paintbrushes.

They drip onto his white labtop, and he thinks it looks much, much better. Dirty.

Something squeezes his heart, and he feels a trifle bit of pain. He catches a scissors by the side of his laptop, picks it up, twists it between his fingers, and drives it down his white sleeves so it cuts a neat stroke down his cuffs. The shiny blade stops just right before it bristles across flesh.

He doesn't know what is pain. He wants to feel it, to relish this. He _needs _this.

_Drip. _

_Patapatapatapon. _(Near continues in his game by his side, oblivious to his antics.)

_Drip, drip, drip. _

There's blood. Alot of blood. And he savors the sight of it joining the chocolate liquid and white milky cream. He tenses in his seat, and awaits the final climax. He anticipates a prick, any sort of pain to reawaken his dull senses that have been fortified and jaded along time ago, and he doesn't understand why the time on the clock moves, and his mind is reeling, and there's _nothing _at all.

His blood vessels jut in his body. Something throbs painfully in his heart, and he attributes it to the pain against his wrist, that triggers the skippings of his heartbeats against his chest.

(Yeah right, he believes his stupid, illogical theory.)

And that's when L realizes the stupid, fucking truth.

That no matter how many lacerations he can cut against his white sleeves, into his skin, deep deep inside until it knives like sharp bloody razor, it doesn't fucking hurt, at all.

He can't feel pain, not when his heart continues to hurt.

(They say, no amount of physical pain can take away the emotional ones.)

For once, L does not have the evidence to prove them wrong.

**owari **


End file.
